L. Modesitt - Imager’s Battalion

It also suggests that he’s confident enough that he believes he can defeat us easily and wants to be able to chase down survivors, reflected Quaeryt, which he couldn’t do if his troops were actually inside the city or even within his chateau.

“… the comparative openness of the terrain will allow us greater opportunity to maneuver at will and to concentrate our forces as necessary as well as to move quickly enough that we do not suffer significant casualties from cannon fire…”

Deucalon continued to talk in generalities for almost another quint before he finally said, “Please convey this to your battalion and company officers. Unless matters change suddenly, there will be another briefing for all of you, here, tomorrow evening at the same time.” Deucalon stepped back, and a major Quaeryt did not recognize stepped forward.

“That is all, sirs.”

By the time the major had delivered those few words, the marshal had vanished from the tent. In moments, Myskyl and the commanders around him were also gone.

Skarpa said nothing until he and his three subcommanders were well away from the briefing tent. Then he looked to Quaeryt. “What do you think?”

“He didn’t mention who will lead the attack.”

“He didn’t, did he?” Skarpa smiled sardonically. “What do you think that means?”

“That we will,” growled Meinyt from behind Quaeryt. “He’s not saying because he doesn’t want anyone to notice that we keep getting thrown into the fire.”

“Or that he doesn’t want the Bovarians to know,” suggested Quaeryt.

“How would that…” Meinyt stopped abruptly. “You don’t think…?”

“I don’t know what to think, except it’s more than a little unusual that our forces are much smaller and yet the only musket and cannon attacks have been against us.”

“Even Myskyl wouldn’t do that,” Meinyt admitted.

“Exactly,” said Skarpa. “I doubt any of the senior officers would, either, but with over a hundred majors … the marshal might not want to say anything yet. He didn’t tell us anything that the Bovarians wouldn’t already know.”

“I didn’t see Lord Bhayar,” said Khaern.

“He doesn’t usually attend briefings,” said Skarpa. “He gets briefed first.”

“Why is Lord Bhayar even here?” asked Khaern abruptly. “If the marshal is making the decisions…?”

Skarpa looked to Quaeryt and smiled. “You might explain that best.”

“It was his decision to attack Bovaria when we did. He’ll be the one executed if Kharst wins. His family will be destroyed. And … he was trained by his father to make those kinds of decisions. He can and will override the marshal if he thinks it necessary.”

“And … if you think so…?” pressed Khaern.

“I can occasionally tell him what I think. He still decides,” replied Quaeryt dryly. “That’s why I’m a subcommander and not on his staff or the marshal’s.”

“It’s also why you’re married to his sister,” said Skarpa. “He didn’t give you any choice there, either.”

“You’re … married to Lord Bhayar’s sister?” asked Khaern. “And he put you where you’d be leading charges?”

Belatedly, Quaeryt realized that he’d never mentioned Vaelora to anyone outside Fifth Battalion except Skarpa and Meinyt, and it was clear that neither of them had told Khaern. “Why not? He’ll be where he can be killed when we meet the Bovarians.” That wasn’t quite true, because Bhayar would be farther from the action than Quaeryt would be, but Quaeryt had no doubts that Bhayar would not survive if the Telaryn forces were routed. “His father sent him as a ranker to Tilbor during the fighting there, and his grandsire sent his father into battle as well.”

“No other rulers in Lydar do that,” Khaern said.

“No other rulers are descended from Yaran warlords.” Quaeryt’s words were dry.

“Do you think we’ll attack on Vendrei?” asked Meinyt.

“It won’t be tomorrow,” replied Skarpa. “That’s about all we know.”

With Deucalon advising Bhayar, Skarpa was absolutely right, Quaeryt reflected.

The four kept walking, with Erion slowly rising in the east behind them, Artiema almost ready to set in the west, even before the sun.

Almost exactly at the second glass of the afternoon on Jeudi, Quaeryt was standing at the north end of the lake that formed the southern end of the Telaryn encampment, still trying to improve his imaging by trying to draw heat from the lake water or, later, from a river, rather than from the rain that wasn’t likely to arrive when he needed it.

The first step had been easy enough. He’d managed that two days earlier. He’d just imaged a tiny stone tower, no more than the length of his middle finger, into being at the edge of the water, drawing heat from the surrounding water. A thin film of ice extended little more than two fingertips from the stone tower. The second step was to image the little tower out of existence while drawing heat from the water. That had taken him almost two days of intermittent effort to work out. Destroying the tiny tower hadn’t been hard at all, but finding a way to obtain the strength to do the imaging from the water had been the hard part. Once he’d mastered the technique, it was actually less tiring, he could tell, even on that small a scale, than imaging without seeking sources of heat.

Of course, it wouldn’t work all that well in the winter. Or if there isn’t a lake or a big river nearby.

“Subcommander, sir!”

He turned to see Lhandor riding toward him, leading Quaeryt’s mare. Riding beside the young Pharsi officer was another undercaptain Quaeryt did not recognize.

“Sir, Lord Bhayar would like to see you,” said the undercaptain. “I’m to escort you, but Undercaptain Lhandor may certainly accompany you.”

“Good,” said Quaeryt, taking the mare’s reins from Lhandor and mounting.

The undercaptain led the way around the northeast side of the lake, past the large briefing tent and then into an encampment surrounding a second tent barely smaller than the briefing tent. He reined up before the squad of troopers stationed in front of and around the tent.

A major, another officer Quaeryt had not met, stepped forward as Quaeryt dismounted. “Lord Bhayar awaits you, Subcommander.”

“Thank you.”

One of the troopers lifted the tent flap for Quaeryt, then dropped it behind him.

Inside, the tent was partitioned into two sections, one containing a camp bed and a chest, and no one. Quaeryt pushed aside the flap to the other side. Bhayar rose from a small desk, the kind that could be folded into a flat oblong to fit in a wagon. The wooden stool on which he had been seated had a thin cushion that fell to the plain gray carpet that covered the ground as Bhayar rose. Hangings ran from the tent ridge poles to the carpet, enclosing the area around Bhayar and the desk. A small noisy burbling fountain, clearly fed from a tank set on stakes, stood in one corner. The space felt confining, close, and Quaeryt couldn’t help but frown when his eyes lighted on the fountain.

Bhayar laughed. “The hangings and the fountain make it hard to overhear what is said here … if one speaks quietly and not at a great distance from me.”

“What might I do for you?” asked Quaeryt.

“Kharst has twice the troops we do, not to mention muskets and cannon,” said Bhayar mildly, adding, “And while there are high clouds, there do not appear to be any heavy rainstorms in sight. I understand you also lost one of your imager undercaptains.”

“Undercaptain Shaelyt. He was one of the most promising.”

“How did that come about?”

“I was injured in the first cannon attack last Samedi, and we ran into evidence of another cannon emplacement on Solayi…” Quaeryt went on to explain what happened.